Take out the laugh track, and the events of the Theatre Thug are anything but funny. In one tense moment, Drake and Josh learn what fear really is, and come close to losing each other. Tag to episode 3x14. This is my first attempt at a "Drake and Josh" fanfic. I wanted to highlight how intense and dramatic the end scene of the episode would have been, adding in some angst and a hint of violence, culminating in a dramatic climax with an original conclusion. Rated T for some minor violence (particularly in part two), just to be safe. Written in three parts.

Part One

It wasn't the first time Josh had gotten into trouble; it wasn't even the first time he had been arrested. It was just his luck. This happened every time he got excited about something: it blew up in his face. Leaving him distressed and discouraged, and this time with physical scars to match the emotional ones.

Josh had put a lot of work into perfecting his role as the Theatre Thug for "The FBI's Most Wanted." He always met every task with the same eagerness, diligence, and determination. If he was going to do something, he was going to do it well. He thought he would finally get his fifteen minutes of fame. His last attempt at television had been a disaster. He had been overcome by stage fright live on the air, and it had taken people forever to stop making fun of his twitching. At least this time he would get several takes if something went wrong. But he was excited – beyond excited, he was stoked - for a chance to finally redeem himself.

Drake hadn't understood what the big deal was. All Josh had to do was show up at the Premier and say a few lines, look tough for the camera. Wasn't hard. Except maybe the looking tough part – Josh was as about as tough as a new-born kitten. Though he had told Josh he just wanted to see the set of a TV show, Drake had gone to the theatre to support his brother. Plus, he had nothing better to do. He and Josh did everything together, so it only seemed fitting that he should be there.

Though he would never tell Josh, Drake thought his brother had done a good job. He'd transformed in front of the camera, almost embodying the Theatre Thug. It was cool to see him on TV, though Drake had had to keep looking away from him during the actual filming, because he couldn't stop laughing.

But then Drake had undermined everything by getting cast as Scared Guy #1. His performance, his one stinking line, stealing Josh's thunder. Things came easy to Drake. He had stage presence, good looks, and charm. People fawned over him. Girls – and Helen – practically threw themselves at his feet. And even though Josh loved his brother, he couldn't help feeling jealous. His first chance to be in the spotlight, and Drake had stepped into it. Drake, who was never out of the limelight. Anything Josh did could never compare to what Drake did. He had just wanted a taste of fame, of popularity. A taste!

For days, Drake had been signing autographs and wooing swooning starstruck girls, while Josh had been beaten, harassed, and arrested repeatedly – his record was seven arrests in one day – and still he had to show up for work. He was bruised and scuffed, and sore all over. Over the past week, he had hated living in his own skin more than he ever had in his entire life.

For once in Josh's life, people were finally remembering his face – but for all the wrong reasons. He guessed no one would ever remember the name Josh Nichols. Now, he wouldn't even mind that, being unknown and forgettable. It would be better than people constantly mistaking him for someone else, tackling him to the ground, and slapping handcuffs on him. They were not gentle. He hated being shamed in public, mistaken for low-life, criminal scum. Him, the honour-roll student, assumed to be a felon, a crook, just because of how he looked!

To sum it up, Josh was exhausted.

Drake walked into the Premier lobby as Josh was wiping the counter. He was glad when Drake offered him a drive home. It was already pretty late, and with everything going on, he didn't feel safe walking or taking the bus. He'd tried that, and some old lady had beaten him with her cane. Yes, a nice safe drive home, and then a long bath with his Lavender Breeze bubble bath and alligator were what he needed.

"Josh, you lock up tonight," Helen instructed, tossing him the master keys. He really didn't want to. He was tired and in pain, and the longer he was there, the more time before he could fall into bed. He wanted to sleep for days. But Helen was taking advantage of him – again. If it had been Drake, who she just had to remind was as cute as a clam-shell (whatever that meant), instead of him working that night, she never would have made him lock up, especially not on one of the worst nights of his life.

Except these things never happened to Drake. Ever.

Still, Josh was thankful to have his step-brother there to keep him company. It wasn't his fault that everyone loved him. Even Josh couldn't resist loving Drake, no matter how irritating he was. Maybe he could even convince Drake to help him with the mopping, that way they would be out of there sooner. "Hey, uh, do me a favor. Get the mop from the janitor's closet while I lock up?"

Drake shrugged. "I don't know where it is."

"Just go pass Helen's office, down the stairs to the basement."

"Stairs?" Drake tossed his head back, his reddish brown hair sweeping out of his face. "You owe me." But off he went. Truthfully, he felt bad about how things had turned out for Josh – even if he had been a major dork for getting excited about it in the first place – and part of him felt this absurd guilt for the way hot girls had been mooning over him, and asking him to recite his one line. He figured the least he could do was help Josh close up the theatre, though he wasn't about to let Josh know that.

As Drake headed off, a broad man in a brown leather jacket and black knit-cap entered. His clothes were completely black, even down to his heavy charcoal boots with matching laces. His aura screamed "BAD GUY!" He glanced around as he walked into the lobby, sizing up the place. It was empty, except for a curly-haired teenager in a red vest. It was a rather dorky uniform, but somehow the kid pulled it off. Just one employee. Perfect. He preferred fewer witnesses.

"Sorry, bro, we're closed," Josh said. He was polite, but his voice sounded weary.

"Didn't I see you on TV last week?" the man asked, as they sized each other up. Josh thought the guy seemed oddly familiar, but the question distracted his brain from placing his face. Oh great, thought Josh, here we go again.

"Yes," he groaned, "but, look, I am not the real Theatre Thug."

"Yeah, I know that."

"Good." Josh started sorting through the keys in his hand, looking for the one to the main entrance. He wished this guy would just hurry up and leave so he could lock up.

"I am."

The admission momentarily slipped by Josh. It was inconceivable. All week Josh had been hassled for being this man, it didn't seem possible that the real thug should be standing two feet in front of him. Besides, wasn't he supposed to be a hundred twenty miles north of San Diego? "Look, I'm about to close –" the words sputtered and died on Josh's lips, as he looked up into the man's face. There was no doubt; he was the man from the FBI's photo. Standing that close to him, Josh thought it was ridiculous people had mistaken him for this guy. The man had a solid, firm jaw and cold, hard eyes. There was something dangerous and cruel in his dark eyes that could never be in Josh's gentle blue ones.

Josh's mind went blank. He froze. Then realization swept over him. His brain was crowded with news stories and mug shots. What had "FBI's Most Wanted" called the Theatre Thug? "A dangerous dirt bag...known to be extremely violent." Oh no. Josh could form only one coherent word, his face already twisted in panic. "Hello."

"Where's the money?" the man demanded, angry. Mean. Out of all the theatres he could have hit, he found the one where the kid who had played him worked. The boy was younger than he had expected; he'd looked older on TV. But maybe it had to do with the role he had been playing. It bothered him that he'd been portrayed by some wimpy punk.

He'd hurt this kid just as easily as he did the others.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do!" the man yelled, pointing his finger in Josh's face. His right hand was shoved in his pocket. Josh realized he was probably concealing a switch blade in there, or could have a gun tucked in his waist band. This man meant business. He was dangerous and angry, and he wanted what he'd come for. Only the most violent criminals ended up on "FBI's Most Wanted" – a prospect that had seemed exciting until he was actually living it. It would be better if he just cooperated.

"Yeah, I do!" Josh admitted, his voice pinched. It always increased in volume and pitch when he was nervous. He avoided the man's gaze. He couldn't look at those eyes. If I don't look at him, maybe he'll just go away – like the imaginary monsters of his childhood, that his father had chased away from under the bed. He wished his father could help him now.

"Where is it?"

"Register!"

"Get it!" The man grabbed his shoulder and roughly shoved Josh toward the counter.

"I'll go get it!" He stumbled over to the cash register, catching himself on the counter, hands on either side of it. He hesitated. He didn't want to give this man the theatre's money. Besides, once he gave it to the man, he became useless. Who knew what the thug would do to him then? Maybe he should stall, buy himself some time until he thought of a better plan. Or maybe he could talk his way out of this one.

"What?" the man shoved Josh again. He was quickly losing what little patience he possessed.

"Um," Josh refused to look into the man's face, gazing just over his shoulder at a movie poster on the back wall, "like, Helen just says that I'm not allowed to open the register unless someone makes a purchase." She'd be really mad if he handed over the money in the register. He didn't want to lose his job over this.

What was he saying? Surely even Helen would tell him his life was worth more than a night's income.

"Either you open the register," the thug threatened, "or I open your head."

Josh had no doubt he meant it. "I do like my head closed."

"Open it!" Another shove, pushing Josh up against the register. He was getting sick of this kid.

"Opening!" Josh pushed a button and the tray popped open. The thug wanted to slug him for making such an easy task difficult.

Suddenly, the stillness of the theatre was pierced by the screeching of sirens. "The cops!"

"Did you hit the alarm?" The man grabbed his vest. Josh could feel the rancid breath on his face.

"No, we don't even have an alarm. But check it out, if we did, I sure wouldn't hit it, because I like to think of us as friends, don't you?" Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? He could see the man's irritation flaming into rage, but Josh couldn't stop. He talked and rambled when he was nervous or scared – and right now he was terrified.

He'd inserted the friends line because he had once heard on a crime show that, if a person found themselves in a situation much like his, it was important to form some kind of bond or comradeship with the criminal. Remind them you were human, not a victim.

"No!" And it had failed.

"Why would you?"

A man's voice boomed over a megaphone, demanding the thug surrender. Escape was impossible. He was surrounded. Josh echoed the words, trying to encourage the man to listen and give himself up. The thug was pacing back and forth rapidly, like a caged animal. Josh feared he would do something desperate. Desperation made him even more dangerous.

"Come out of there!" the cop outside continued. "This is your last warning!"

Those last words caused a shift. The man released his hold on the boy's sleeve, and for a split second Josh hoped the man was actually going to surrender. But then his arm wrapped around Josh's throat, in a vice-like grip, choking the teenager. Josh yelped and gasped for air as he was dragged backwards.

"No, this is your last warning!" the man shouted. "I got a kid! Look, I'm going out the front door! Nobody try to stop me!"

Josh's arms flailed, and his hand clasped onto the arm locked around his neck. He struggled to get free, to breathe, but the man held him close, calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh of Josh's shoulder.

"Please, let me go," Josh pleaded. He couldn't believe he was a hostage. He hadn't even wanted to work tonight. "You're squishing my Adam's apple."

"Shut up!" the man roared.

Drake was carrying the mop upstairs, muttering complaints under his breath about jobs and chores. Work. Who needed it? He hadn't been able to find a bucket, but that wasn't his problem. He had better things to do on a Friday night than this, so if Josh wanted – Josh.

As he reached the top of the stairs, Drake could hear his brother's voice, carried down the hall from the lobby, high-pitched and squeaky. Drake knew that tone well. There was only one thing that could produce that particular pitch: fear. Josh was afraid of something – or someone. A loud, angry voice responded to his brother's. Who was that?

Suddenly, police sirens penetrated the air, a cop shouted commands from outside. What was going on? Why would the police be outside? Who would target a movie theatre? Then the pieces clicked into place with startling clarity. The Theatre Thug!

Drake crept quietly down the hallway, the squeaks of his sneakers lost in the thundering of the sirens. He couldn't believe it. The Theatre Thug at the Premier, and only a week after his FBI listing had been filmed there. "I got a kid!" the voice yelled. The Theatre Thug in person – and he had Josh! Drake had to do something to help. He had to save his brother.

Drake peered around the corner of the corridor, but Josh wasn't behind the counter. A broad, mean-looking man was holding Josh, dragging him toward the exit. The dark haired boy was pleading for his release. Drake had to stop them before they reached the front doors. Who knew what the man would do to Josh if he got him out of the building?

He glanced down at the mop in his hand.

"Josh, duck!" Drake cried, raising the mop and swinging it with all his might.

"What?" The thug's reflexes were quicker. He released his hostage, and the mop connected with the side of Josh's head. Josh fell to the floor. It was difficult to tell if he was still conscious.

Drake didn't have time to make sure his brother was okay. The thug turned his attention to the smaller teen. "I have a mop!" Drake warned, as the man advanced on him, tall and looming. A predator. The man cocked his head and swiped it from Drake's hand. "I had a mop." Drake took off running as the man brought the mop down heavily, aiming for his head. He missed. The mop fell to the floor, as he frantically pursued Drake. He barrelled through tables and chairs like a grizzly bear, trying to catch the spry teenager, who was leaping over chairs and railings.

The man was closing in. Drake could feel him close behind him, hands grabbing like claws, ready to rip through his flesh...

To Be Continued...